Finished by H. Rider Haggard (love novels in english .txt) 📕

the scattered thorns and following the spoor where I could, within half an hour we came to a little glade. There, not fifty yards away, I caught sight of a single blue wildebeeste bull standing in the shadow of the trees on the further side of the glade, and pointed out the ugly beast, for it is the most grotesque of all the antelopes, to Anscombe.

“Off you get,” I whispered. “It’s a lovely shot, you can’t miss it.”

“Oh, can’t I!” replied Anscombe. “Do you shoot.”

I refused, so he dismounted, giving me his horse to hold, and kneeling down solemnly and slowly covered the bull. Bang went his rifle, and I saw a bough about a yard above the wildebeeste fall on to its back. Off it went like lightning, whereon Anscombe let drive with the left barrel of the Express, almost at hazard as it seemed to me, and by some chance hit it above the near fore-knee, breaking its leg.

“That was a good shot,” he cried, jumping on to his horse.

“Excellent,” I answered. “But what are you going to do?”

“Catch it. It is cruel to leave a wounded animal,” and off he started.

Of course I had to follow, but the ensuing ride remains among the more painful of my hunting memories. We tore through thorn trees that scratched my face and damaged my clothes; we struck a patch of antbear holes, into one of which my horse fell so that my stomach bumped against its head; we slithered down granite koppies, and this was the worst of it, at the end of each chapter, so to speak, always caught sight of that accursed bull which I fondly hoped would have vanished into space. At length after half an hour or so of this game we reached a stretch of open, rolling ground, and there not fifty yards ahead of us was the animal still going like a hare, though how it could do so on three legs I am sure I do not know. We coursed it like greyhounds, till at last Anscombe, whose horse was the faster, came alongside of the exhausted creature, whereon it turned suddenly and charged.

Anscombe held out his rifle in his right hand and pulled the trigger, which, as he had forgotten to reload it, was a mere theatrical performance. Next second there was such a mix-up that for a while I could not distinguish which was Anscombe, which was the wildebeeste, and which the horse. They all seemed to be going round and round in a cloud of dust. When things settled themselves a little I discovered the horse rolling on the ground, Anscombe on his back with his hands up in an attitude of prayer and the wildebeeste trying to make up its mind which of them it should finish first. I settled the poor thing’s doubts by shooting it through the heart, which I flatter myself was rather clever of me under the circumstances. Then I dismounted to examine Anscombe, who, I presumed, was done for. Not a bit of it. There he sat upon the ground blowing like a blacksmith’s bellows and panting out—

“What a glorious gallop. I finished it very well, didn’t I? You couldn’t have made a better shot yourself.”

“Yes,” I answered, “you finished it very well as you will find out if you will take the trouble to open your rifle and count your cartridges. I may add that if we are going to hunt together I hope you will never lead me such a fool’s chase again.”

He rose, opened the rifle and saw that it was empty, for although he had never re-loaded he had thrown out the two cartridges which he had discharged in the glen.

“By Jingo,” he said, “you must have shot it, though I could have sworn that it was I. Quatermain, has it ever struck you what a strange thing is the human imagination?”

“Drat the human imagination,” I answered, wiping away the blood that was trickling into my eye from a thorn scratch. “Let’s look at your horse. If it is lamed you will have to ride Imagination back to the wagon which must be six miles away, that is if we can find it before dark.”

Sighing out something about a painfully practical mind, he obeyed, and when the beast was proved to be nothing more than blown and a little bruised, made remarks as to the inadvisability of dwelling on future evil events, which I reminded him had already been better summed up in the New Testament.

After this we contemplated the carcase of the wildebeeste which it seemed a pity to leave to rot. Just then Anscombe, who had moved a few yards to the right out of the shadow of an obstructing tree, exclaimed—

“I say, Quatermain, come here and tell me if I have been knocked silly, or if I really see a quite uncommon kind of house built in ancient Greek style set in a divine landscape.”

“Temple to Diana, I expect,” I remarked as I joined him on the further side of the tree.

I looked and rubbed my eyes. There, about half a mile away, situated in a bay of the sweeping hills and overlooking the measureless expanse of bush-veld beneath, was a remarkable house, at least for those days and that part of Africa. To begin with the situation was superb. It stood on a green and swelling mound behind which was a wooded kloof where ran a stream that at last precipitated itself in a waterfall over a great cliff. Then in front was that glorious view of the bush-veld, at which a man might look for a lifetime and not grow tired, stretching away to the Oliphant’s river and melting at last into the dim line of the horizon.

The house itself also, although not large, was of a kind new to me. It was deep, but narrow fronted, and before it were four columns that carried the roof which projected so as to form a wide verandah. Moreover it seemed to be built of marble which glistened like snow in the setting sun. In short in that lonely wilderness, at any rate from this distance, it did look like the deserted shrine of some forgotten god.

“Well, I’m bothered!” I said.

“So am I,” answered Anscombe, “to know the name of the Lydenburg district architect whom I should like to employ; though I suspect it is the surroundings that make the place look so beautiful. Hullo! here comes somebody, but he doesn’t look like an architect; he looks like a wicked baronet disguised as a Boer.”

True enough, round a clump of bush appeared an unusual looking person, mounted on a very good horse. He was tall, thin and old, at least he had a long white beard which suggested age, although his figure, so far as it could be seen beneath his rough clothes, seemed vigorous. His face was clean cut and handsome, with a rather hooked nose, and his eyes were grey, but as I saw when he came up to us, somewhat bloodshot at the corners. His general aspect was refined and benevolent, and as soon as he opened his mouth I perceived that he was a person of gentle breeding.

And yet there was something about him, something in his atmosphere, so to speak, that I did not like. Before we parted that evening I felt sure that in one way or another he was a wrong-doer, not straight; also that he had a violent temper.

He rode up to us and asked in a pleasant voice, although the manner of his question, which was put in bad Dutch, was not pleasant,

“Who gave you leave to shoot on our land?”

“I did not know that any leave was required; it is not customary in these parts,” I answered politely in English. “Moreover, this buck was wounded miles away.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed in the same tongue, “that makes a difference, though I expect it was still on our land, for we have a lot; it is cheap about here.” Then after studying a little, he added apologetically, “You mustn’t think me strange, but the fact is my daughter hates things to be killed near the house, which is why there’s so much game about.”

“Then pray make her our apologies,” said Anscombe, “and say that it shall not happen again.”

He stroked his long beard and looked at us, for by now he had dismounted, then said—

“Might I ask you gentlemen your names?”

“Certainly,” I replied. “I am Allan Quatermain and my friend is the Hon. Maurice Anscombe.”

He started and said—

“Of Allan Quatermain of course I have heard. The natives told me that you were trekking to those parts; and if you, sir, are one of Lord Mountford’s sons, oddly enough I think I must have known your father in my youth. Indeed I served with him in the Guards.”

“How very strange,” said Anscombe. “He’s dead now and my brother is Lord Mountford. Do you like life here better than that in the Guards? I am sure I should.”

“Both of them have their advantages,” he answered evasively, “of which, if, as I think, you are also a soldier, you can judge for yourself. But won’t you come up to the house? My daughter Heda is away, and my partner Mr. Rodd” (as he mentioned this name I saw a blue vein, which showed above his cheek bone, swell as though under pressure of some secret emotion) “is a retiring sort of a man—indeed some might think him sulky until they came to know him. Still, we can make you comfortable and even give you a decent bottle of wine.”

“No, thank you very much,” I answered, “we must get back to the wagon or our servants will think that we have come to grief. Perhaps you will accept the wildebeeste if it is of any use to you.”

“Very well,” he said in a voice that suggested regret struggling with relief. To the buck he made no allusion, perhaps because he considered that it was already his own property. “Do you know your way? I believe your wagon is camped out there to the east by what we call the Granite stream. If you follow this Kaffir path,” and he pointed to a track near by, “it will take you quite close.”

“Where does the path run to?” I asked. “There are no kraals about, are there?”

“Oh! to the Temple, as my daughter calls our house. My partner and I are labour agents, we recruit natives for the Kimberley Mines,” he said in explanation, adding, “Where do you propose to shoot?”

I told him.

“Isn’t that rather a risky district?” he said. “I think that Sekukuni will soon be giving more trouble, although there is a truce between him and the English. Still he might send a regiment to raid that way.”

I wondered how our friend knew so much of Sekukuni’s possible intentions, but only answered that I was accustomed to deal with natives and did not fear them.

“Ah!” he said, “well, you know your own business best. But if you should get into any difficulty, make straight for this place. The Basutos will not interfere with you here.”

Again I wondered why the Basutos should look upon this particular spot as sacred, but thinking it wisest to ask no questions, I only answered—

“Thank you very much. We’ll bear your invitation in mind, Mr.—”

“Marnham.”

“Marnham,” I repeated after him. “Good-bye and many thanks for your kindness.”

“One question,” broke in Anscombe, “if you will not think me rude. What is the name of the architect who designed that most romantic-looking house of yours which seems to be built of marble?”

“My daughter designed it, or at least I think she copied it from some old drawing of a ruin. Also it is marble; there’s a whole hill of the stuff not a hundred yards from the door, so it was cheaper to use than anything else. I hope you will come and see it on your way back, though it is not as fine as it appears from a distance. It would be very pleasant after all these years to talk to an English gentleman again.”

Then we parted, I rather offended because he did not seem to include me in the description, he calling after us—

“Stick close to the path through the patch of big trees, for the ground is rather swampy there and it’s getting dark.”

Presently we came to the place he mentioned where the timber, although scattered, was quite large for South Africa, of the yellow-wood species, and interspersed wherever the ground was dry with huge euphorbias, of which the tall finger-like growths and sad grey colouring looked unreal and ghostlike in the waning light. Following the advice given to us, we rode in single file along the narrow path, fearing lest otherwise we should tumble into some